


A haunting

by LiveOakWithMoss



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Halloween, Humor and...not humor, Taking liberties with Elven superstition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-31
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-29 04:55:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5116361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveOakWithMoss/pseuds/LiveOakWithMoss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is one night a year, where this world and the next are not so far apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A haunting

**Author's Note:**

> 0\. I know that in a culture where rebirth after death is a thing, the concept of ghosts and 'the other world' may not be exactly the same as ours. But I took some liberties, in the spirit of the holiday.

Maglor lay back and plucked absently at the strings of his harp. “I should compose something for the holiday.”

“It isn’t a holiday,” said Curufin shortly, from where he was studying some maps on the desk with Caranthir. “It is a folk superstition that credulous fools have turned into an excuse to get drunk and pull pranks.”

“Do not insult drunken pranks in front of me,” said Celegorm lazily. He was sprawled before the fire, his back propped against Huan’s vast side. “I take it personally. This is a very important festival for me, and, it should be said, for Ambarussa, who have already exhausted our fair cousin’s tolerance for pranks.”

“His sword is long,” said Amrod gloomily, from one armchair.

“His sword is sharp,” said Amras, from another.

“And no duller for the honey we poured in his scabbard.”

“Well, you shouldn’t have put what you did in his bed,” said Celegorm. “They were both very angry about it, and it has quite put a halt to pranks the rest of us may have liked to pull.”

“How will you celebrate the holiday if not with pranks?” asked Maglor curiously.

“With drinking.” Celegorm yawned. “Did you know the Naugrim have perfected the brewing of ale infused with autumn squashes?”

“Yes,” said Caranthir, leaving the maps to Curufin. “I have a barrel amongst our reserves, Telchar’s nutmeg pumpkin ale, limited run.”

Celegorm sat up, his eyes alight. “Hail and well met, oh favorite brother! We shall celebrate the thinning of the veil with  _much_  merriment.”

Curufin rolled his eyes. “Have you not outgrown this yet? ‘Thinning of the veil’, I ask you. This is based in absolutely no physical or even  _metaphysical_  evidence that I can – ”

“Oh, shut up, you pedant,” said Celegorm, unmoved. “ ‘Tis the time of the year when the veil between worlds is flimsy, and there are those who walk between. I have seen them.”

“And when you saw them, were you riding high on whatever that herb was the hunters used to chew?” Curufin muttered.

“I believe,” said Maglor, imperturbably. He plucked a string and a single clear note rang out into the room. “I believe in the shifting of worlds on the Hallowed Eve. I can feel it in the air this night of the year.”

“Artists,” snorted Curufin, but Maglor ignored him.

“I shall play a song for the departed,” he said softly, his fingers moving almost to their own. “For those who walk between…”

For a moment, despite Curufin’s skepticism and Celegorm’s amusement, a silence fell in the room, and even the twins stopped hissing to each other. It stretched out, and Maglor reveled in the atmosphere, which momentarily felt like the hush before the curtain lifted on a stage.

Then, as if a bell had been struck, the conversation picked up again, and Caranthir asked with some curiosity if Finrod was still armed and antagonistic.

Maglor smiled, and let his fingers find a song, a song to appease even the angriest of spirits, and joined in his brothers’ speculation.

  

* * *

 

Elrond tugged Elros’ hand and they crept back down the hallway. The shadows were growing long, the wind was rising, and Elros was already shivering. Elrond tried to hurry them along, but they drew up short as they realized a tall, gaunt figure was slumped in an alcove right by the end of the hallway. He was sitting in his usual place, his scarred cheeks sunken and his eyes with that cobwebbed look that meant he had already taken his evening dose. Elrond glanced at his hands and saw they weren’t shaking; a sure sign.

“Come on, Elros.” He tugged his brother’s hand, making to pass Maedhros by and get back to their room, where they could wedge the chair under the door handle, before –

“Why do you look like that?” The slow, rasping voice.

Elrond turned, feeling Elros’ hand tighten on his. “Look like what?” he asked, more bravely than he felt. He was reasonably sure Maedhros was in the spot he would stay all night, but one could never tell with him. Sometimes, even when he was like this, he could move so fast that one would remember that he was a warrior still, one of the most fearsome alive.

Alive, for a given value of ‘life’.

  

* * *

 

Maedhros could hear his own breaths like the ocean in his ears; the world was perfectly numb and shut off, a relief, but he made himself pull focus from the numbness. He fixed his attention on the little one hanging back, the one who cried more and talked less and whose hatred was like a fist in Maedhros’ consciousness.

He could always tell when someone wished him dead.

“Why do you look so pale,” he said slowly, carefully, shaping the words around teeth that felt loose. He was too far gone to manage the intonation of a question. “Like you’ve seen a ghost.”

The fearful one, the one who hated, drew further away from him, clinging to his brother’s hand, but the bold one – the one who shouted more and refused to cry and whose hatred was a knife blow skittering awry – stood his ground.

“It’s the other one of you,” he flung at Maedhros. “The mad one. He’s in there, he’s,” he broke off as an involuntary shudder took him. “He’s playing a harp with no strings,” he said softly. “But you can…you can almost hear music. And his fingers bleed. And he’s…he’s talking to someone.”

“Probably not just someone,” said Maedhros. “Several someones.”

“Yes,” whispered the bold one – Elrond, Maedhros remembered, in a flicker of lucidity. “He was talking to people who weren’t there.”

Maedhros smiled, and even Elrond took a step back then. 

“Well,” Maedhros said, and took a sip from the flask at his waist. “The veil is thin tonight.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Halloween or not, this is my headcanon for what Elrond and Elros' 'foster family' life was like.


End file.
